Tell You How It All Went Down

Well, I’m happy, that’s for sure.  Happy in a fiercely independent and contentedly co-mingling manner.

I don’t know if I’m making the most prudent decisions, and I don’t particularly want to spill the manner of my stupidities out for the whole kingdom to ponder. My Mama reads this shit. Mama, rest assured, I am totally fine.  And so are the girls. Flying the YOLO flag.

Somewhere along the line I acquired a roommate.  A helper around the house.  An entertainer. Someone that does the lawn and the dishes.  Someone I can sit across the room from and be a friend to.  A musical mate. A guitar teacher. A talker.  A person to fill up the lonely part I’d made peace with.   A handsome smile to light up the room.  Shewlaawww(d). Hoo!

He’s nice, I like him.  We’re friends.  And I’m cool with it.

He’s here for now & he’s paying rent. He’ll be gone soon.

I think.

He’s out there on the porch singing & listening to this. And I’m gonna go join him.

WPF

There’s a boy at my house. And he’s been here for a few days. Sleeping on the couch.  And I’ve been drinking a glass of wine tonight. And he’s on the back porch playing the guitar. And the thought of all of it together makes me smirk with an anxious satisfaction.  

He’s the same old type of boy I’m always attracted to. Wandering in life.  Handsome as hell.  Dreamer.  No car. (not something that has ever bothered me.) Musician. Complicated by life. 

He’s sweet with my girls. He has three of his own (which always prompts the Brady Bunch theme in my head when I think about it.) They keep asking me where he is when he goes outside. Fern especially.  Her own daddy has not been so involved in her life (his choice.boo).  I don’t flirt with him in front of the girls.  At least obviously.  Because I don’t want them to get attached.  Because I don’t really know what’s going on. And I don’t really know that I care to know.    And i don’t wanna get attached.  Unless I do. 

Flow. Going with it.  Playing it cool. Not hanging on the every move of him.  Don’t even really want to?  Though he is becoming a thought in my brain.   I like to kiss his cheek I guess. Yeah. 

I’ve been so very alone for so very long. I’ve become so independent. So very to myself.  I think I’m not as good a talker as I used to be. And I don’t care to pretend I’m some great conversationalist. And that seems to be okay.  Just the way it is. 

I’ve snuck away long enough to think about it all.  More wine.   He doesn’t drink. 

 

Bloody Sunrise, Bloody Moon, Bloody Hell.

Five ticks past 11 at night. I’m liable to argue with myself about how to roll out of the bed when the alarm sounds and the neighbor’s rooster crows a calling response in the morning. I greet the day, a habitual grudge, as the morning is forever coming too soon. A whispered, “Fffffucking hell” upon waking, or a happy thought for the two minutes I still have to rest until the alarm goes off again. Five minutes before 7 is as early as I have been able to force myself to wake.

Monday through Friday after the last minute moment of rest is caught, I fling my legs off my bed in groggy and immediate search for the pants and t shirt I wore the day before and the day before that. I allow myself 35 minutes exactly to greet, breakfast, and don the children in their outfits. Quickly weaving out of outfit arguments, rhythmically encouraging swift cereal spooning, eschewing the notion that socks should match, brushing a quick tooth, inevitably yanking a hair too hard mid sweep. Tears. Sighs. Kisses. 7:40. Public school starts too early.

There is supposed to be a blood moon tonight, and there likely is somewhere. Here there is only an orange glow casting off some low clouds to northeast. Can’t see no blood moon. Only stars I’m seeing is the glowing lights on the tops of the cell phone towers across the railroad tracks up Lee Street. Can’t see nothing. It’s quiet out, though.

blood moon

Blood Moon. AKA Total Lunar Eclipse. Somewhere Else. Not currently visible to me. 

The Room Ripe for Injury

Spring is in the air. Injury season is upon us, Fern is apparently allergic to injury season. Yesterday, while on a jaunt around the house, chasing her big sister, she got her finger slammed in the door. It rose up big and purple. I was not here at the time, the children were with their (unnamed) babysitter. Finger is not broken….And today, something that was likely bound to happen, happened due to the impossible positioning of the ceiling fan in the girls room. There is no way to position their bunk bed in the room so that the top bunk is far enough away from the ceiling fan. Neither of them sleep on the top bunk, I’ve kept Fern in her crib because of this accursed wind blower. However, the girls do take delight with wrestling and coloring the wall, playing on the top bunk. Certainly, why hell, of course I’ve warned them hundreds of times about the dangers of the top bunk bed. They could fall. They could get chopped in the head by the ceiling fan. They could come crashing through the frame and get shards of busted wood shoved into their kneecaps. Nothing seems to stop them. Fern actually pushed Ollie off the top bunk this week. Luckily the brilliantly close positioning of the door frame (the damn room as 4 doors, 3 of which are exit points) broke her fall and she only screamed about her hit head and her mean little sister for a little bit. But anyways. Today the inevitable happened. While choosing a path of not valuing sage advice, she was on the top bunk this morning, playing with the speed chain dangling temptingly from the ceiling fan and CHOP. Big LOUD horrified yell. The ambulance warning thump of Ollie’s feet running to my room. I was on it already. I walked in to see Fern, arms outstretched, bleeding from her forehead. “Oh, Lord,” I thought as I reached up and cradled her, then grabbing a towel to stop the blood. The cut doesn’t appear to need stitches. It’s half a pinky fingernail long, and will come together with a butterfly bandage. She didn’t cry long. I’m watching her for signs of a concussion. Guessing we will likely have to skip the AMPFEST at the bookstore. I imagine her head is hurting and loud noises won’t do much to soothe the brain. Poor Poopie-Pants.

Raffle Raffle Frozen Raffle

Tonight was family fun night at Fern’s preschool. There were dollar slices of pizza, free drinks, a baked goods sale, and dollar raffle tickets you could buy and drop into varying prize buckets with hopes of having your name drawn and winning. We bought several tickets, dropping most into the bucket for free passes for Tweetsie Railroad (a $156 value), quite a few in the “Frozen” gift basket bucket which held the movie, dress up clothes, books and other memorabilia, and some here and there in other baskets that caught the girl’s attention. There were about 50 prizes in all to be raffled away. With the anticipation of each name drawn and each prize given away, Ollie danced and hopped with excitement. Fern, too little to care about the prizes, was more into hugging on Mrs. ‘Silla at the baked goods table , glowing at the novelty of seeing her preschool teacher at night. One by one, names were drawn and called, prizes collected. We didn’t win the gift certificates to the restaurants on Walker Ave. We didn’t win the collection of art supplies. We didn’t win the summer fun basket. We held high hopes for the Tweetsie Railroad tickets, but alas, we didn’t win that, either. Ollie was sure we would win the Frozen basket. “Mama! I just KNOW we are going to win the Frozen basket! I really want that DRRRESS!!” she exclaimed numerous times happily jumping in my face. She held her hands together as they spun the basket that held the tickets around and around. She stood stock still as the lady pulled out the lime green ticket that held the Frozen movie gift basket’s fate. There was a slight pause as the lady squinted to read the name written on the ticket. Ollie raised both her hands up high in the moment of hope. And then collapsed in utter defeat when the name that was read was not ours…. As soon as we walked out the door of the school’s fellowship hall, nearing 8 o’clock, both girls fell into inconsolable distraught. Fern hollered, squealed, flounced, “I wanna hug Mrs. Sillaaaaaaa, I WANNA HUG MRS. SILLAAAAAAA!” I’ve never seen Ollie so disappointed in my life. Ever. Over and over and over through her high pitched cries that lost breath, “I wanted to win the Frozen baaaaasket! AAAAAaaaahuhuuuuhuuh! I wanted to win it! Mooooommmmmmy! It was so special to meeeeeeee!” …It was a long long 8 minute drive back to our house. The red stoplights mocked me. The woeful wails of my children widened my eyes to full circles, I am sure, as I directed our vehicle over the potholed roads back to our house. At some point I began singing Whitney Houston’s “The Greatest Love of All”. “I believe the children are our future, teach them well and let them lead the way, show them all the beauty they possess insiiiiiide, give them a sense of pride, to make it easier…” The singing did not help much to stop the girls howling, but it unquestionably calmed my nerves that were unraveling from the din of their bawling. So grevious in their broken hearts, I undressed them, put them in their nightgowns, held one each knee, still singing til they went silent, “…And if, by chance, that special place that you’ve been dreaming of leads you to a lonely place, find your strength in love.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gvPYXHM94DQ

 

Bitters: A Dying Self/Anger Blaming.

I’ve been mad at the world lately.  I can’t focus on any sort of long term functionality. I can not keep it together and I always feel like I am falling apart.  

I’ve had to let a big part of my self die over the past years.  

I’ve been angry about how my kid’s daddy up and left, drunk in the middle of the night with a plan to call home crying about how he’d fucked up and for me to please take him back again. When he’d left with another woman. Again. Hell naw, son.

 I couldn’t take him back (again). The act would have been a self defeating blow.  And, oh! OH! What a tough two years it has been since. Who the hell am I now? 

Eric left me with a four year old and a four month old. Girls.  Beautiful loving girls. 

He left with another woman he’d knocked up when we were splitsville but still involved. You know. Baby daddy shit. 

She had her baby in January. And he didn’t see the baby.  She came knocking on our door, 90 miles away in February.  

I gave them room.  He met the baby. Another girl.   

He’d said. He’d promised. He wanted to stay with me.  

And, by God. I was willing to try.  I was willing to reach.  One more deep down try. 

I went for a walk with Ollie.  We left Fern with him. We came back. The woman and the baby were gone. Eric was there with Fern.

I felt some sense of closure. Some sense of peace.  We went and ate Mexican food.  

We put the girls to bed. We watched television together. I went to bed.  

He left in the middle of the morning.  Eight beers deep, left on the TV table.  

It was Valentine’s Day when I woke up with my four year old and my four month old.  Ollie came into my room. Asked, “Where’s Daddy?”  

I said, “Is he gone?”

“Yes,” she said. In her four year old’s voice.  

After a day of being gone her Daddy called and called begging for me to come and get him.  I couldn’t . I just couldn’t.  And I shouldn’t have.  And I didn’t.

And ever since then, many days I am either mad. Or sad. Or solitary. Or tired. And down. Little motivation. I struggle to keep up the patience. Or the laundry.  And the dishes.  The homework. The loving attention.  The baths.  Nutrition?  The bills. Friendships? Music?  Exercise? Fuck! Work! All this other stuff!?! Some days I can’t accomplish anything what with the weight of all I feel I have to accomplish at hand.  

I can’t concentrate on anything but loathing life when the house gets too out of hand in the untidy department.  But if I were to spend everyday picking up after my girls, there would never be time for anything else, so the house does get messy. And it does effect my mood.  I HATE my home being messy.  It brings me loooooooowwwww dowwwwwwn.

I’m not rich. I don’t have a maid. So there’s not much I can do about it except do the best I can. And, the best I can fluctuates to sundry degrees great and small.

Thinking about it now. If I did have a maid, she’d have to have an accent. Preferably, an English one. Because what could be more cheery than that?  

All this talk of anger.  Least I am aware. And I’m trying to let it go. 

 

 

Hesitating Suzanne

Here’s a song i’m singing in my head as I work on cleaning the house up when I’m not distracted by something else.  Like the guitar. Or the children and their hunger. Their thirst. Their arguing with one another.  The cries. The stopped up kitchen sink. The cats and their meowing.  The call of the computer. The thought of something more. 

Here’s the song:

I’m not a fan (I’m not a fan)

Of Suzanne (why’s that man?)

I think she can

do better

than she does. (i hope she does)

I think Suzanne (i think Suzanne)

Should get a plan (get a plan)

Get herself together while she can (yes ma’am)

I ain’t a fan (ain’t a fan)

of Suzanne (c’mon man)

she don’t do anything that

she’s dreamed she can (aww man)

Come on Suzanne (Suzanne)

I think you can (Suzanne)

Don’t think you can’t

Then you won’t

and you never will. (and you never will)